On a scale from 0 to Dumpster Fire, I tend to hang out at the far, trash-burning end, but lately, things have been going eerily well.
In the immortal words of my dad, hick poet-extraordinaire, "Just cuz the tall grass is hiding the shit, doesn't mean it's not there, waiting for you to step in it."
So when Festus showed up with a birthday cake and less blood on his suit than usual, I was a little more than skeptical. Add to that a scythe-wielding accountant that is wearing the carpet thin, a demonic soiree in Missouri, a murderous gang of Red Caps in cheese country, a lie-detecting seven-year-old and a snooty corporate cult, and I can smell the gas fumes on the trash heap at forty paces. And just when I think I have a hold of the rolling dumpster, set ablaze, that is my life, another one is coming right behind me, down the hill and picking up speed.
Man, it's true what they say. You never hear the flaming dumpster with your name on it.
